


5 times it almost happened and the 1 time it (finally) did

by blackwjngs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5 times 1 time, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, you'll wanna punch anyone who gets in the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-06 03:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11591832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackwjngs/pseuds/blackwjngs
Summary: sherlock holmes hates, despises, detests, the word almost.aka, 5 times sherlock and john almost had their first kiss, and the 1 time they did





	5 times it almost happened and the 1 time it (finally) did

**Author's Note:**

> ooooo this is my first 5 times 1 time fic i hope i did this beautiful trope justice
> 
> also- i currently do not have a brit on hand so if any british people read this and notice americanisms that aren't used in england, please, let me know!!
> 
> thank you and enjoy!!

"John" Sherlock said to open air, assuming his flat mate would hear and amble into the living room where he lay on the sofa. 

"Yes?" John questioned. 

"I have an extreme distaste for the word almost." Sherlock replied. 

John chuckled as he sipped his tea. "Is this gonna be a repeat of the 'alright' rant? You think almost should be separated into two words as well?"

Sherlock sat up and scowled. "Of course not. Alright should be two words because in the context it alludes to the question 'are all things right?'. It's simple truly, I don't know why someone hasn't remedied this."

"Yes yes, I heard the twenty minute version last week. I understand your point. So what's with your sudden hatred for the word almost?"

Sherlock huffed and then spoke. 

"It's all relative. It is an all too common word thrown around that spreads inaccuracies left and right. What's 'almost' something to one person is completely different than what's 'almost' something to someone else. The definition is 'not quite; very nearly', what on earth is one supposed to get from that? Distance? Motion? Feeling? What? It's such a bloody useless word. Not to mention the remorseful connotation it has. 'Oh i almost did this, but i couldn't i just couldn't, if i could go back i would', 'We were almost there', how close were you? How the hell is anyone supposed to get anywhere with something as generic as the word almost!" 

John raises his eyebrows at his friend, not expecting such a response. Although, he's unsure why he was surprised. It's Sherlock bloody Holmes for god's sake. He could give you an in depth analysis on the word 'the' if he could be bothered to. But, John considered it, and ultimately agreed. 

"I suppose you're right."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You don't suppose I'm right, you know I'm right. And god I can't even express to you how infuriating it is when witnesses use that word in their statements. Such a massive inconvenience."

John sat his empty cup in the sink and returned to the living room and sank into his arm chair. "As much as you would love if someone knew precisely how many footsteps the suspect took before they turned the corner, or how many cups of tea it would take to use up a full bag of sugar, that's just preposterous. If there's a crime in progress, a witness' main objective is how to not get themselves bloody killed. Not how many times the maid has cleaned their floors in the past year." 

Sherlock grumbled something about relativity and tea and sugar, but John ignored him and focused on the tv instead, deciding to just be amused by his ridiculous flat mate this time, instead of infuriated. 

Little did sherlock know, that his hatred of 'almost' would only grow. 

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

I.

The first time, neither of them were in a place to consider the possibility. It was Christmas Eve, they were both a bit tipsy at the party Lestrade was hosting, Sherlock more so, using the excuse that 'only alcohol can get me through such a dreadfully boring event without breaking up someone's marriage or revealing a hidden drug habit'. John agreed with this statement and didn't say anything when Sherlock probably drank a bit more than his fair share. 

Lestrade was a bit of a traditionalist (or at least his wife was, though not in marital commitment, because as Sherlock so thoughtfully pointed out by whispering in John's ear, she had moved on from sleeping with the PE teacher to the french teacher), so there were dashes of Christmas spirit and tradition everywhere. Crackers, mince pies, Father Christmas figurines in so many places you had to look before sitting down because you might just end up with Santa where he definitely does not belong, and of course, mistletoe. 

A few people had gotten caught by it that night, more on purpose, but a select bunch that were too spacey by cause of wine, (or just their personality, Sherlock mumbled under his breath), to notice, and they had to snog on full display for everyone. 

When conversation lulled, John volunteered to go grab another glass for himself and Sherlock, and Sherlock nodded as he handed him his glass, and scanned his eyes over a few of the police officers he wasn't yet acquainted with. 

A few seconds and his mind was flooded with scandals that he promised he wouldn't speak out loud to anyone other than John, and no louder than a whisper. He practically bounced out of his chair to go and talk to John in the kitchen, because as much as he won't admit it, he thrives on gossip. 

It's in the doorway that the two practically collide, wine sloshing in glasses but thankfully not spilling over. Sherlock had the glint of deduction in his eyes, and John rolled his own and nodded into the kitchen so he could listen to what Sherlock had figured out. 

"Hey wait a minute!" Lestrade slurred, more drunk than the rest considering he didn't have to worry about getting home that night. He flicked his eyes towards the top of the doorway and back down to Sherlock and John with a mischievous smirk. 

The two glanced up to where Lestrade had looked and, even though they still won't admit it, their breath caught in their throats, and pulses started throbbing. These reactions were not of 'oh shit I'm gonna have to kiss my flat mate', they were more, 'holy shit, I'm about to kiss my flat mate'. 

Their eyes locked and were laced with hesitancy, the 20 something pairs of prying eyes not helping their discomfort. 

"Oh come on now, they don't have to. All the people who have kissed tonight are either already together or will most likely not see each other again. These two have to live together, and god knows neither of them are drunk enough to forget about it in the morning." Lestrade's wife interjects, sipping from her glass. 

Lestrade rolls his eyes and waves his hand reluctantly, letting them off the hook. Breaths being held are released as Sherlock and John fall back into routine as Sherlock rattles off who is carrying what STD and had passed it on to what married man the night before. 

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

II.

Time number two was at a gay bar. They were there for a case, obviously, questioning one of the regulars who was a friend of the victim's but also the number one suspect, but neither Sherlock nor John failed to appreciate the topless, sweaty dancers, though they made sure to make their glances discreet, and while the other couldn't see them drooling. 

Unfortunately, the friend had proven to not be the murderer, something about hair dye according to Sherlock, but they found new people worth questioning in one of the bartenders and a waitress, both of whom were working the night the victim died. (It should be mentioned that he died after leaving the bar, which is a detail most of the staff wasn't aware of for some reason, Sherlock blamed it on police incompetence as usual). 

John was sent off to question the waitress, something about his charm, while Sherlock stuck with the bartender, who was more used to dealing with less than tactful people. 

John got nothing from the waitress except her number, which he stuffed in his coat pocket and didn't look at again, for a reason he'd rather not ponder at the current moment. 

As he walked back over to Sherlock, he noticed the man beside him, too close and obviously not welcome. His Captain Watson persona emerged slightly as he strode over to his flat mate and stepped in front of him, separating the two men. 

"Can I help you?" John asked in a stern voice. 

The guy, who was obviously drunk beyond belief, looked at him through hooded eyelids. 

"Just talking to this guy here, no problem." He slurred, reaching out a hand in an attempt to caress Sherlock's cheek. 

John grabbed his wrist. "Not happening."

The drunk guy laughed. "What, you're not gonna tell me he's straight or something? We're in a gay bar."

"Not straight," John said with a strange confidence. "Taken." 

His teeth were clenched tight, making his jaw appear more defined, and his appearance more threatening. He slid his arm around Sherlock's waist and felt him tense at the motion, but quickly relaxed into the touch, grateful that John was here to get him out of an unfamiliar situation. 

The man scoffed. "Taken? By you? Please. I saw you over there hitting on that waitress, even got her number. If you really are together, he should really dump you and come dance with me instead." The man once again lifted his hand in an attempt to touch Sherlock, but Sherlock reacted quickly, grabbing his wrist just as John had, but going a step further and twisting it. 

The man seemed unfazed. "Want me to believe you? Fine. Kiss. Right here. Now. And I'll leave you alone."

John scoffed. "Why? So you can go get off in a bathroom stall to the memory of it? No thanks."

The man's mouth morphed into a devilish grin, and he used Sherlock's surprise to set his wrist free and lunge at John, who narrowly avoided a slap to the face. 

Sherlock and John quickly made a decision and confirmed their choice with a slight nod. 

"Alright." Sherlock said, locking eyes with the drunken man. "we kiss, you leave us alone?"

He nodded and crossed his arms, standing back and looking between them and waiting, swaying as they did so. 

John braced himself and placed his hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock had one hand on John's shoulder and the other on his hip. They leaned toward each other, lips mere inches away, when the shout of the bartender cut them off. 

"Oi! Derek, you bloody creep. Leave them alone will ya. Sorry about that boys, he's bad when he's that wasted."

"Well then maybe you should stop selling him drinks." Sherlock mumbled so only John could hear him over the pounding bass. 

"Couple of pints on me lads. And I'll tell ya everything I know about your victim there."

Sherlock and John nodded appreciatively, neither opposing to alcohol running through their veins right now. 

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

III.

The third time occurs when John returns from Tesco with the shopping, and is met with the sounds of rummaging coming from his bedroom. 

He sets the bags down and peers into Sherlock's bedroom, and when seeing that he's not there, he assumes that he is responsible for the noise. 

The previous case had led them to the streets of London, like many before, but this particular part of London was full of construction, and as a result, full of ways to be easily injured. 

They were chasing a man responsible for a triple homicide, and he darted into a tarp covered corridor as an attempt to get the two off his trail. The attempt was futile, as he was caught when John shot down a piece of wood that miraculously hit the suspect in the head and knocked him out cold. But this happened after Sherlock had stepped in a hole masked by the darkness and gotten his foot caught, sending his body sprawling forwards, but leaving his ankle to stay put and crack with the force. 

The telltale sound of a broken bone caused John to attempt the ridiculous way of catching the man, and luckily it worked. He called Lestrade and gave him their location, and when he and a few other officers arrived for back up, John demanded that one of the less necessary officers drive them to a hospital (okay, Sherlock added in the 'less necessary' part, but John was not about to argue with him considering that he was actually complying and letting himself be taken to A&E). 

And now they're here. With Sherlock moping around the flat on crutches for the past couple weeks, and gaining so many bruises under his arms from his attempts at pacing with the crutches that John actually allows and even encourages him a bit to go over his recommended dosage of pain meds. If there really was a problem, John was a doctor, and he would be here to help. 

"Sherlock?" John called up the stairs to his flat mate. "the hell are you doing in my bedroom?"

"Need your socks!" Sherlock shouted back. 

"Wha- my, socks, oh god okay can't wait to hear the explanation for this one." John muttered to himself. "Why exactly did you need mine? What's wrong with yours?"

"Wrong material, too expensive. need to test an average citizen's." Sherlock responded once more, annoyance at the edge of his voice at having to explain his process. He hated doing that ever so much. 

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, not bothering to attempt to get anymore out of Sherlock because it would only lead to exasperated sighs and sarcastic remarks. 

He put the kettle on and brewed some tea, making enough for Sherlock if he wanted some, although he was fairly sure he wouldn't. 

The sound of metal hitting wood made John walk over to the stairs, where he saw Sherlock emerging from his doorway, holding about ten pairs of John's black socks. 

It was quite a sight, the worlds tallest, lankiest, man attempting to walk on crutches. It took him a week, a lot of shouting, and a swallow of his pride in letting John help him to be able to move with them properly. 

Sherlock got to the top of the stairs, where he shoved the socks in the pockets of his dressing gown, and surveyed his task. He was extremely unsure of how to go about it without sitting and sliding down on his bum, but with John now home, there was no way in hell he was going to do that. 

"Need some help?" John asked, amusement in his voice. Realistically, he should be worried, but Sherlock faced with steep stairs, crutches, and a broken ankle? He was just slightly too happy that he now had some sort of disadvantage. 

"Sod off" Sherlock responded. 

"Damn alright. Pleasant aren't we?"

"Part of my charm." Sherlock deadpanned. 

He hesitantly placed a crutch and his good foot on the first step. The second crutch was slid down the stairs and John caught it, putting it off to the side so Sherlock could grab it when he made it down. 

Sherlock used the crutchless arm to clutch the railing, and braced himself against it as he moved the crutch and then his good foot onto the next step, bad foot tucked behind him, completely useless. 

This strategy worked almost all the way down. Almost. 

The third step from the bottom is where things went wrong. 

Sherlock adjusted his grip on the railing, but moved the crutch before his grip was solid. The crutch hit too close to the edge of the stair and slipped off, causing Sherlock's hand to slip off the railing and him to tumble forward, into John's arms, and onto the floor. 

The two men lay in what looked to be a compromising situation, save for what got them into it. The crutch that had caused this was laying beside their bodies, and Sherlock glared at it. 

"Great job, truly." John said with mock sincerity. 

"Shut up." Sherlock scoffed. "I was nearly there."

"Yes, you were, I applaud you. You also nearly fell on your face, which you would've if I hadn't been standing here expecting this."

Sherlock turned his head to retort, making eye contact for the first time since they had gotten into this position. 

His words got caught in his throat as he locked his own eyes with john's. He gazed into them, their color changing each time he blinked. 

John licked his lips and broke the eye contact to glance down at Sherlock's lips, which were mere centimeters away from his own. 

Sherlock flicked his own eyes down to John's lips, the saliva there making them practically glisten, like the treasure at the end of a quest, indicating to you to go and get it, that you had won. And Sherlock was so close to claiming his prize. 

With a clear of his throat and turn of his head, John had broken the moment. Sherlock tried his best not to look devastated, but he really was. He truly didn't know how many more times he could almost-kiss John Watson without giving in and pinning him to a wall. 

"You should uh, probably get your crutches now."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, removing himself from his position on top of John's (glorious) body, and grabbed the crutch next to them. 

John stood and handed Sherlock the other, sheepish smiles on both of their lips. 

"I'm just gonna put away the shopping now, you off to experiment with my socks?"

Sherlock nodded. 

John smiled and turned, starting to rifle through plastic bags and dumping his abandoned tea in the sink, as Sherlock retreats to his bedroom and closes the door. He proceeds to abandon his sock experiment for now, and lays on his bed sulking. 

Both of them are left swimming in regret, and asking themselves why they hadn't moved just an inch. 

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

IV.

The fourth time, Sherlock hears a shot. The horrific sound of a bullet hitting something- or someone- makes Sherlock stop his frantic search for the terrorist he had caught. The man had run off long before Sherlock and John had reached his apartment, but they had trailed him to an abandoned office building on the east side of London, and had split up to try and corner him. 

Sherlock, John, and the terrorist were the only three in the building, as the police hadn't gotten there yet. John had his gun, but the shot didn't sound like it came from his weapon. So the only other solution is-

"JOHN"

Sherlock bolts out of the room to try and find the source of the sound. He checks every cubicle, every office, every washroom, every conference room, every janitors closet for god's sake, and still, no John, no suspect. 

He's about to start checking the entire building again when he sees drops of blood leading down the staircase opposite of where he came from. 

Tears start forming in his eyes and his heart races. He realized he had to prepare himself for the possibility of finding John dead at the bottom of those stairs. 

But he couldn't, he just couldn't, and even though there was no way he'd be able to live if his worst fear was realized on the ground floor, he knew he had no choice, so he stepped through the doorway and started the descent, following the trail, the lump in his throat making it hard to breathe. 

He follows the trail down the stairs, noting that the amount of blood is not enough for someone to bleed out by, leading him to believe John was holding a hand over his wound in an attempt to lessen blood loss. 

there is one more set of steps around a half wall that Sherlock has before he will know the fate of his best friend. 

He takes a deep breath and turns the corner, not opening his eyes until he touches the railing, fear pumping through his veins. 

His knees practically give out when he opens his eyes and surveys the scene in front of him. 

There was a pool of blood at the bottom and drag marks leading away from it, also made of blood, looking like someone had taken ahold of John's feet and pulled him off to dump his body at the bottom of the Thames. 

Sherlock couldn't go down there. He really really couldn't. His feet were cemented to the floor and his knees were shaking. But his body and his mind battled once more, and his mind won as per usual, making his feet move downwards as he clung onto the railing as if it was the only thing keeping him alive. 

He reaches the bottom and stares at the blood, not knowing what to do. Thought after thought is whirring around his brain, and the most prevalent one, the one blocking every rational thought about what to do next he was trying to focus on was, 'John is dead, John is dead, John is dead.'

The sound of sirens break the barrier of the incessant chant of death, and Sherlock snaps his head up to see police cars with flashing lights pull up to the building, joining ones that were already there. 

What? When did those get here?

Sherlock rushes out of the building and sees an officer shoving the terrorist into a squad car, the terrorist who was covered in blood. 

Wait. What if it wasn't John's blood? Sure the gun shot hadn't been from John's gun, but John's a soldier. He was conditioned to war time atmospheres. He could've dodged it, taken the gun from the man and shot him. Was it possible, maybe, that John was alive?

The familiar voice of Lestrade caused Sherlock to turn, and he saw the detective kneel down next to someone surrounded by a group of other officers, and give whoever was in the middle a sympathetic smile. 

Sherlock sprinted over to see who was leaning against the wall, shouting "MOVE, MOVE" as he pushed through the people blocking his view. 

Once he had a clear view of the victim, he collapsed. But this time, not out of fear, anger, or sadness, out of relief. 

It was John. His flat mate John, his best friend John, the man who he was in love with, John, John, John, he was here, he was okay, he was alive. 

"The ambulance is on its way John, hang in there." Lestrade said, before nodding his head towards the cars and leaving the two friends alone. 

A touch of John's hand to Sherlock's makes him look up. 

John gave him a soft smile. "Hey, are you alright? You look like you just saw a ghost."

Sherlock drew in a shaky breath and whispered, "I thought you were dead."

John raised his eyebrows. "What? Why on earth did you think that?"

"Th-the gunshot and I couldn't find you and the blood on the stairs and at the bottom I thought you got shot and he dragged your body away and was gonna bury it and I thought I was never gonna see you again or touch you again or tell you-"

"Hey, hey, Sherlock, it's alright, I'm right here. I'm alive, I'm okay."

John gestures for Sherlock to come forward and Sherlock complies. John wraps his free arm around Sherlock's shoulders, the one that wasn't holding his bandage in place, and pulls him close. He gently runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair as shaky sobs wrack through his body, the intensity of fear and relief breaking him down. 

When Sherlock had calmed down, he pulled away and realized the lack of John's other arm around him. He quickly noticed the bandage and became worried again, frantically asking John what the hell happened to him. 

John ran through it as simply as possible, as he was extremely tired from the case. 

"Basically, yes he tried to shoot me, but I knocked the gun out of his hand just as he fired it, and the bullet went into the wall. I tackled him, and he pulled out his pocket knife and stabbed me. The drops of blood on the stairs are mine, from where it dripped through my fingers, but the pool and drag marks at the bottom are from him. Lestrade and a couple other officers found us and pulled him off of me and took him downstairs. He was being difficult so Lestrade punched him and his nose started bleeding really badly. He kept fighting and Lestrade had to take him down and handcuff him on the floor. Which is where the puddle came from, the suspect being on the floor with blood pouring out of his nose. And the drag marks are him being dragged out of there by his ankles so he didn't have the height advantage. One of the officers called the ambulance as soon as we got him out here but since we're so far out of town it's taking them a bit."

Sherlock nodded as he absorbed the information. He hates himself for making them split up. He wishes he could go back and not make that horrible fucking decision. 

"Hey," John says softly, putting a finger under Sherlock's chin to get him to look him in the eyes. "Stop thinking like that. It's not your fault. Splitting up was smart and there's nothing you could've done. And I'm fine. So please, don't blame yourself, and stop worrying."

"H-how did you?"

John gave him a small smile. "I was in Afghanistan Sherlock. The look of self hatred and guilt is one I have come to spot easily, unfortunately. Worn it myself plenty."

Sherlock gazes into John's eyes, so ridiculously glad that before they rushed into the building wasn't the last time he would see them. 

John's smile drops as his gaze drifts to Sherlock's mouth, and he slightly opens his own to wet his lips.

Sherlock resists the urge to whimper at the sight. He lets his gaze drift the same as John's, mimicking his actions. 

There's a tentative move closer, a brush of hands, and then, 

"Doctor Watson? My name is James I'm here to help you. Can you come with me to the ambulance so we can take you to a hospital and get you stitched up?"

John and Sherlock both tighten their lips in frustration, annoyed that yet another moment was broken. 

But as much as John would like to tell the paramedic to sod off so he can make out with Sherlock, his wound actually hurts a lot, and the blood has almost soaked through the makeshift bandage Lestrade gave him. He knows that the aforementioned is not an option, and he needs to get to a hospital. 

He sighs reluctantly and nods, wincing as he tries to stand. 

The paramedic holds out his hand but Sherlock blocks it. 

"I've got him. He'll be there in a moment."

James nods sympathetically, and heads back to the truck to prepare the gurney for John. 

Sherlock crouches next to John and wraps his arm around his shoulders, supporting his body as they both stand. 

John lets out a breath once he's in a standing position, and leans against Sherlock, grateful for the support as they walk across the lot. 

Sherlock rides to the hospital with John that night, and stays with him in his room until he's released. 

Sherlock never tells John that he doesn't sleep, because he's too scared to wake up, and for John to have not. 

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

V.

The fifth time comes at home in 221B, with Sherlock wrapped up in an experiment involving leaves, and John dozing off on the couch.

Sherlock pops his head into the living room where John lays on the sofa, attempting to watch tv through his eyelids apparently. 

"John," Sherlock calls, "if you're going to fall asleep, do go to your bedroom. I don't want you having nightmares."

John's eyes open slowly and he nods, blinking and focusing back on the tv. "M'fine," he responds. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and gets back to his leaves, leaving John to watch as much crap telly as he pleases. 

He finishes and cleans up about 45 minutes after he checks up on John, and returns to the living room to ask if he wants some tea before bed.

Sherlock is met with a knocked out John, arm having fallen off the sofa, and face pressed into the cushions. 

Sherlock begins to panic. John has to sleep in his own bedroom or his nightmares are horrific. He has special blankets that are weighted to create the illusion of physical protection and security, and every time he doesn't have those covering him when he falls asleep, he wakes up in a cold sweat, screaming something about death and breathing heavily. 

He rushes over to John and shakes his shoulders in an attempt to rouse him. 

"John, John! Wake up," 

John responds with a series of what look to be frightened facial expressions and some murmuring. 

Sherlock keeps shaking, not knowing how else to wake John up. 

Suddenly, John jerks awake, panting and looking at Sherlock with wide eyes, as if he can't believe he's real. 

"Y-you're alive, oh my god. That was awful I thought you were dead, I thought, I dreamt, that you were the one who found the terrorist, and, and, h-he got you. He got you and I found you drowning in your own blood, in a pool of your own blood, and you were coughing and choking on it and I couldn't do anything I couldn't save you, you died in my arms Sherlock, you died." John sobs. 

Sherlock wraps his arms around John, hugging him tight and whispering reassuring words in his ear that he was right here and he always would be, and he's saved him so many times already, as John rests his head on Sherlock's shoulder and tries to calm his erratic breathing. 

Sherlock could do it. Right now. He could lift John's head and caress his cheeks and lean in and brush their lips together. It would be so easy. He could do it. But he won't. 

John is too vulnerable, too exhausted, too impacted by that dream to know what he's doing. 

So when he walks John to his own room and John puts a hand on his cheek and says thank you, Sherlock nods and quickly turns away down the hall, because he can't risk John doing something under the influence of terror, and regretting it the next day. 

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

I.

Sherlock is laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about John Watson and his vendetta against almost. In many ways, John and almost are good things. Almost getting blown up by bombs, but not, almost getting killed by members of a Chinese smuggling network, but not, both good things. But there is one almost involving John, that is just eating Sherlock alive. 

He knows that he loves John. He accepted- and buried- it long ago, as he knew that John took their conversation that first night at Angelo's as rejection, and had been dating women ever since. Sherlock had been able to live with it for years, allowing himself the lingering glances and casual touches that could be perceived as platonic. And he was alright. He knew that this was just something that he had to deal with, and he did just that. He took all of John he could get, and what he couldn't get was the job of his imagination. 

But it was different now. So inconceivably different. Sherlock had seen it. He had seen the signs. They were there. He thought back to the five times, he had in fact been counting. 

The Christmas party, the nervousness but also willingness in John's eyes as they stood under the mistletoe. He always turned very transparent when under the influence of alcohol. 

The bar, the protectiveness and the delicate hand on his neck, the one, Sherlock had observed, he saves for special kisses. 

The crutch accident, with the licking lips and darting gazes, moment broken out of anxiety, Sherlock deduced, as they were pressed so close he could feel John's heartbeat. 

The abandoned office building and the terrorist, the staring at lips and into eyes, the movement, the exasperation when interrupted. 

And the sofa. John let himself be vulnerable in front of Sherlock, which he rarely did in front of anyone, and he had wanted to kiss him. Sherlock knew that, but he had felt too guilty to think about adding something else to John's whirling mind, that he abandoned the idea. 

And now here Sherlock is. His mind shooting daggers into almost and cracking his knuckles so hard he thought that his hand might actually break. The blank expanse of the ceiling is not helping him think, so he closes his eyes and hopes that his eyelids have the answers to his questions seared into their backs. 

He thinks about John beyond these five times, before the first almost, and he finds signs of longing back there too. He attempts to rationalize them, but he knew that if he did the same things to John as John had done towards him, there would be meaning behind them,  
and there was meaning behind them. 

So that's when Sherlock decides to be done with the almosts. This time, it's going to be done. He will eliminate any almost and make what he and John so desparately need, each other, available. 

There's no alcohol or plants with strange traditions, no perverted douchebags from sleazy bars, no physical disadvantages, and no thinking the other is dead. Sherlock has to do it now. No extenuating circumstances to stop them. 

All he needs is John. 

Sherlock strides out into the kitchen, confidence running through him even though his heart is racing and he's terrified. He's scared for his dreams to be realized, not to actually realize them. Once he finds out what comes after, he'll be okay again. 

"John?" Sherlock calls out from the kitchen. 

"Yeah?" John responds from the lounge. 

"Come in here a minute?" Sherlock says back. 

He hears John shuffling around and standing up to meet him, so he takes that as a yes. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath, ready to execute his plan, and hoping, praying, that John reciprocates his love. If not, if his deductions failed him, it's back to repression and stolen glances, but Sherlock knows it won't be so simple anymore. 

John appears in the kitchen, and without a second thought, Sherlock moves. 

"What did you- whoa!" John says, as Sherlock grabs his shoulders and slams him against the wall, a predatory stare now directed towards him. 

"Listen to me," Sherlock starts, "John, a few weeks ago, I expressed to you my hatred for the word 'almost'. Now, that hatred has not gone away. If anything, it has gotten worse. And do you know why, John?"

John gulped and shook his head. 

"You. You have made it so, so much worse. You with your stupidly gorgeous eyes and goddamn kissable lips and hair that i want to rake my fingers through as you kiss my neck and whisper dirty things to my skin. It's you, it's your fault. We are too close to keep being an almost. It's killing me to almost be close enough, almost touch, almost kiss, almost feel. I can't take this anymore. I'm driving myself insane wondering and theorizing so, John Watson,"

John flicks his eyes to Sherlock's and licks his lips as Sherlock leans in close to whisper in his ear, making the hairs on the back of John's neck stand up. 

"Unless you stop me, I am going to kiss you. Because you are the one thing, the one person, that I cannot bear to have anymore almosts with."

John barely gives him a chance to finish before he's attacking Sherlock's lips with his own, slick movements and tongues roaming mouths making it heavy, and wandering hands making the two crash into Sherlock's bedroom and slam the door forcefully behind them before they fall onto the bed, only separating lips as John places his on Sherlock's neck as he begins to fulfill his desires. 

And after waking up with John in his arms the next morning, Sherlock realizes. It was worth it to deal with the almosts, because in the end, it got him to the finally.


End file.
